. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living. But he was not a father one could make much of. “In it lies the secret poison he used to turn you into an Oracle. “In a sort of beautiful garden-close—wearing lovely dresses and picking beautiful flowers?” “Ah! If one could!” “While those other girls trudge to business and those other women let lodgings. I didn't expect you home before that hour, Sir. But it never said: "Tell someone! Tell someone!" Was he something of a moral pervert, then? Was it what he had lost—the familiar world—rather than what he had done? He stared dully at the footrail.
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